A Want So Wicked (10 page)

CHAPTER 15

R
osita's Hot Dogs is a silver food truck in the parking lot of an abandoned Super Saver. As unpromising as that sounds, I've heard from several customers that they actually have the best hot dogs in the Southwest. So I decide to give it a try.

As we order, Harlin and I wait under the truck's overhang, both of us quiet. Once we get our food, we head to the small white tent with three picnic tables inside. The seating area is empty, private.

“I'm scared of this,” Harlin says, holding up the hot dog. When he does, ketchup drips from the end of the bun. “Is that bacon?” He looks at me helplessly. “Who puts bacon on a hot dog?”

“It's delicious,” I say, taking another bite.

Harlin stares doubtfully back to his food. “If I have a heart attack right here you'd better resuscitate me.”

I smile at the thought of mouth-to-mouth. “I'll try my best.”

Harlin catches the insinuation and chuckles to himself before taking a big bite. “Is it wrong that I'm wishing for congestive heart failure now?” he asks through the food. When he finishes his mouthful, he nods. “You know what?” he says. “That's goddamn delicious.”

“See!”

“You have excellent taste . . . Elise.” He stumbles on my name, but then quickly takes another bite. I'm a little offended, but I try not to let it bother me as we finish our meal.

When we're done, I clean up the plates, Harlin watching me silently. I sit back down, and he leans his elbows on the table.

“Why were you at Marceline's yesterday?” he asks, sounding curious. “If it was just because she attacked you, I think you would have sent the police instead.”

My expression falters as I'm reminded of how abnormal my life is outside of this tent. For a while I actually forgot. “Maybe I wanted my fortune read,” I say, meeting his gaze.

He scratches his beard as he tries to figure me out. “What did you two talk about?”

I take a long drink and then shake the ice in the cup. “That's kind of personal, don't you think?”

Harlin stops, closing his eyes like he's embarrassed. “You're right,” he says. “It's none of my business. You're not one of mine.”

I scoff. “Oh? Do you have several?”

He looks at me quickly. “No, that's not what I mean—”

“You sure? Because it sounded ridiculously bad.”

He tilts his head, as if telling me I shouldn't even begin to think he's talking about another girl. “I promise you,” he says in that smoky voice. “There is no one else. I am very much alone.”

I lower my eyes, feeling the sadness roll off of him again. “You don't have to be alone,” I say.

“It's easier,” he says, mostly to himself. When I look up, he smiles gently. “Although it's always nice to make new friends.”

“Who are mutually attracted?”

“That's a bonus.”

Heat pulsates under my skin, a desire to touch him. Without thinking I reach for his hand as it rests on the table, sliding my palm into it. He stills, and then he runs his thumb over my skin.

“You remind me of someone,” he murmurs.

I deflate a little, hoping he's not referring to an ex-girlfriend. When I don't reply, he slowly pulls his hand from mine to rub his face as if trying to clear his head.

“Looks like it might rain,” he says, glancing at the sky outside of the tent. “I don't ride in bad weather, so I should probably get you home.”

“My father will appreciate you not risking my life.”

“Think he'll like me?” Harlin asks with a smile.

“It's possible.” I pause. “Hey, what are you doing on Sunday?”

“Do you have something in mind?” he asks, brushing his long hair behind his ear.

“Church?” I'm slightly embarrassed saying it, not because I think it's a lame option, but because I'm used to people laughing. Harlin just pulls his eyebrows together.

“Church,” he repeats, as if he's never heard of it before. “What time?”

Surprised, I straighten. “Oh, uh . . . eleven?”

He pauses. “You really want to go to church?”

“My dad's the pastor.”

For a second I don't think Harlin will answer. But then he motions to himself. “I have to get a haircut first.”

I smile broadly, elated that he'll go—which will definitely impress my father. “I don't think there's a decent barber in town,” I say. “But you can maybe go to Ward—the next town over?”

Harlin rests his thumb on his bottom lip. The butterflies in my stomach are back, especially with the way he's sliding his gaze over me. “Can you cut hair?” he asks.

“No. But I'm a quick study.”

“You'll be careful with me, right?”

“So careful.”

He pauses, seeming to think about it. “Okay,” he says. “I'll go to church if you cut my hair tomorrow. But then you have to let me paint your portrait sometime.”

“You paint?” I'm honestly surprised.

“I haven't in a long time,” he says. “But I find you inspiring.”

“I'd be interested to see your work,” I say. “Wait, you don't mean nude or anything, right?”

He laughs. “No. You'll be fully clothed.”

Harlin stands and then offers his arm to help me up. When I'm in front of him, I will him to flirt back. Or at least be more obvious about it.

“You sure you're a fast learner?” he asks, starting to look a little fearful of my lack of salon experience.

I put my hand on his cheek and nod, reassuring him. Harlin closes his eyes as if comforted by my touch, and turns his face into my palm to brush his lips over my skin.

Another wave of desire crashes over me, and I move to kiss him. But Harlin steps away without another word and walks to where he's parked. With a slight sting of rejection, I follow quietly behind him.

 

I ask Harlin if he wants to come inside, but he says he can't. He takes my number and agrees to meet me at Santo's at two tomorrow since I have to pick up my check.

The house is empty, the lingering smell of spaghetti sauce still in the air. I click on the lamp next to the couch before crossing the room.

“Dad?” I call. When there's no answer, I check the kitchen and see the crockpot going, then notice a note stuck to the fridge with a Grand Canyon magnet.

 

Elise,

Lucy's car died again. Picking her up. Stir the sauce for me.

—Dad

 

Lucy's right. The car is a piece of trash. I tend to the sauce, still slightly wound up from riding around on a motorcycle. “Harlin,” I murmur aloud to the empty room. Even his name is hot.

I walk over to the couch, collapsing on the cushion as I click on the television. I get lost in old reruns of
America's Next Top Model
and before I know it, it's gotten dark outside. Where are my father and sister? But I've barely gotten my phone out of my pocket when it begins vibrating. A quick glance at the screen sends my pulse racing with anxiety. Abe.

“Hi,” I say into the receiver as I put it to my ear. I hate the way Abe and I left things, but I also don't want him treating me like I'm his property.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly. “I don't know what I was thinking.”

Guilt rushes over me, and I take an objective step back. Yes, Abe was out of line, and I will definitely tell him that. But I at least owe him an explanation for last night.

“Abe—”

“No,” he interrupts, sounding miserable. “I was an ass, I know that. I'll make it up to you. In fact, I brought you something.”

“You didn't have to bring me anything,” I say.

“I have donuts.”

I smile. “Well, in that case.”

“Can I come in?”

I look over my shoulder toward the closed blinds of the picture window. “Are you—”

“I'm out front. Will you hang out with me for a little while?”

I cross the room and peek through the wooden slats of the blinds. Sure enough, Abe is standing in my driveway with a white bag and a phone pressed to his ear. He sees me and walks to the door. When I swing it open, Abe leans against the frame.

“For you,
querida
,” he says, holding out the bag.

“You're being nice.”

“I'm always nice.”

“You're nice when you want something.”

“Maybe what I want is to be nice.”

I hold his gaze, his dark eyes innocent. “Come inside,” I say, and push the door open wider.

Abe strolls in like he never had a doubt I'd let him. He's changed clothes from what he was wearing earlier. Now he has on a yellow polo shirt, which is amazing against his tanned skin. His short hair is combed perfectly and he smells lightly of cologne.

“So,” he says, turning to me. “Tell me about your new boyfriend.”

I exhale and walk past him, plucking the bag of donuts out of his hand. I take them over to the coffee table, pushing aside the remote and magazines. I should have known that Abe would be up-front. “He's not my boyfriend,” I say, looking back at him. “I've seen him around town, and he asked me out to lunch.”

Abe nods, although his jaw is clenched as he crosses to sit next to me. “Romantic?”

“Abe.” I wince. How did my relatively inexperienced dating life suddenly become so complicated? “I'm not trying to lead you on,” I tell him, my voice twinging in what sounds like pity. But it's the truth. I don't want to hurt him. “You said we wouldn't end up hating each other.”

He stares into his lap. “I lied. So what is it about him?”

Now I'm uncomfortable. “I really don't know him, Abe. And I don't think—”

“Shh . . .” he murmurs, lifting his head. His eyes are dark and deep, and when he starts talking, his voice is silky. “You're too tired to argue with me tonight,” he says.

The minute the words are out of his mouth, I feel a sudden heaviness, like all my exhaustion hits at once. “Oh, whoa.” I sway, leaning into the couch cushion. Each time I blink, my eyelids stay closed a little longer.

“Come here,” Abe says, taking my arm gently to lay me across his lap. As he brushes my hair back from my forehead, it occurs to me that this is wrong. I don't understand what's happening.

Abe takes the knit blanket from the back of the sofa and covers me, taking care as if tucking me in. His fingers begin twisting strands of my hair. “Who is he, Elise?”

“Harlin,” I breathe out, almost like I'm calling for him.

Abe's hand stops in my hair, and I begin to drift away. The peace of sleep beckoning me. “Let me help you to bed,” he says. I can barely keep my eyes open as he picks me up, carrying me down the hall. Abe murmurs as he walks, the words not quite recognizable. I feel my bed underneath me, the sheets icy and the mattress soft.

Abe slides in next to me, covering us both with the blanket. “Don't,” I manage to say, even as Abe curls up behind me. He shouldn't be in my bed. “My dad will be home.”

“No,” Abe says. “He and Lucy will be out until after midnight. Your dad's car got a flat tire, no cell reception. They're fine, don't worry. But we're alone.”

Even though sleep is the only thing I consciously want, I know inside that this isn't right. I try to crawl away, but Abe reaches to pull me effortlessly to him, his chest pressed against my back, his lips on my neck.

“Don't fight,” he says into the skin there. “I just want to talk. Now tell me.” He traces a finger over my temple, down my cheek. “How do you really know that Seer? You're not his Forgotten. So why is he trying to take you from me?”

I'm confused that Abe knows about the Forgotten, that he uses the same words as Marceline. But I answer him anyway. “I'm not yours to keep,” I respond, my eyelids fluttering closed.

He laughs as if that's a silly thing for me to say. Then he kisses my hair, my ear, my cheek. “Do you love me, Elise?”

“No.”

He pauses, his grip tightening around my waist. “Do you love him?”

I think of Harlin, how handsome he looked on his motorcycle, waiting for me. The sadness surrounding him that I want to make go away.

“Do you love him?” Abe asks again, his voice smooth and inviting.

“Yes,” I say finally, a smile crawling across my lips. “I love him.”

Abe's hands slide to my neck, his fingers wrapping around my throat, but not squeezing. His body shakes with the anger radiating off his body, chilling mine. But I'm not scared.

I'm too tired to fight with him tonight.

“Well then,” Abe says after a moment, his hands leaving my neck to rub my shoulders. “Harlin is a dead man.”

CHAPTER 16

I
'm in her vision again. I see Onika as she stares down at the city—her blond hair blowing in the cool wind of the afternoon. A smile touches her lips, and it sets me at ease. I wonder if she's found a kind of peace.

The rooftop door opens, but this time it's not Rodney. It's a younger guy, about twenty or so, with short blond hair and a sharp jaw. He's handsome and distinguished looking in a tan jacket and loafers.

“Onika,” he calls, his British accent twinged with concern. “What are you doing up here? It's freezing.”

“Is it?” she asks, peeking over her shoulder at him. “I can't feel it anymore.”

The guy stops, cutting off his walk toward her as if he's scared. She senses it. “What, lover?” she asks. “Do I frighten you now?”

He doesn't flinch from her words, only holds her cold gaze. “Yes.”

“I can't go back, Monroe. I made the choice and the light won't have me. What do you suggest?”

Monroe swallows hard, kicking at the cement with the toe of his shoe. “I told you not to,” he says quietly. “I told you—”

“Well, it's too goddamn late now, isn't it?” she snaps. “Can you not bear the sight of me?” She stomps across the roof, her heels clacking with menace. “Have you stopped loving me now that I'm not your precious Forgotten?”

She stops directly in front of him, but Monroe keeps his eyes downcast.

“I'll never stop loving you,” he says. “You're the only woman I've ever loved—which is why I tried to let you go. I didn't want this. I never would have wanted this for you.” He lifts his head. “But I know what you are now. I know what you've done, what you will do. I saw you whisper to that woman, heard you tell her to . . . kill herself. She did, you know? I saw it in the paper today.” His blue eyes fill with tears and his hand twitches as if he's about to reach for Onika, but instead he balls it into a fist at his side. “
You
did that,” he says. “Can't you see that you've become a monster?”

Even just watching, I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. But Onika only smiles as the pale skin on her face cracks, revealing the gray beneath.

Monroe steps back from her, repulsed. Onika takes in a deep breath, as if she's inhaling his fear. And then she licks her dry lips and smiles.

“I could make you jump off this building with just a whisper,” she murmurs sweetly as if it's a love poem. “But I won't. Instead I will take all of your Forgotten. You can't hide them from me because I'll seek them out and extinguish them one by one for all of eternity. And know, lover”—she reaches to run a finger across his cheek—“I will haunt your dreams until the day you die.”

With that, she disappears, leaving Monroe alone on the roof until the sky opens up, pouring rain all around him.

 

I wake with a start, bolting upright in bed. The clock reads 3:00 a.m. and the temperature in my room has to be below sixty degrees. I think about the dream that's fading quickly, but something else catches my eye.

My angel stone is on my bedside table, smashed to bits.

 

The next morning, I clean up the shards. I'm devastated by the loss of my stone, but more importantly, I don't know how it happened. Pieces of my dream are still with me—Onika and Monroe even clearer in my head now. I want to pretend that they're parts of a reccurring nightmare, but I'm not entirely sure what's real anymore. All I know is that I have to keep going, have to get through this. So I dump the remains of the angel in the trash and push away my fear.

When I walk into the kitchen, Lucy's sitting at the table, staring into her cup of coffee.

“You okay?” I ask.

She glances up, the dark liner having run under her eyes as if she hadn't bothered to wash it off the night before. Her hair is matted, her skin pale. “Sure,” she answers, her voice heavy with indifference. “Just not sleeping well.”

“Me either.” I pour a cup of coffee, hoping for a caffeine boost.

“Not to mention I was stuck on the side of the road with Dad for several miserable hours last night,” she says. “I had to sit through a lecture about responsibility while we waited for a passerby to rescue us.” She sighs. “I swear I'm going to burn my car for the insurance money. We didn't get home until after midnight.”

“Yeah, well. I don't even remember going to sleep last night.” I glance around. “Where is Dad?”

“Church. By the way,” she says, “he wanted me to remind you that you said you were bringing Abe to services tomorrow. Is it getting that serious between you two?”

My stomach knots at the mention of Abe. I feel awful for how I've treated him. He brought me donuts, but I was so tired, I'm not even sure what I said to him. I just hope he doesn't hate me.

“Uh-oh,” Lucy says, standing to cross the room toward me. “What's changed?”

I lean closer and lower my voice. “I kissed Abe the other night,” I say, my anxiety spiking. Exactly how much do I tell my sister about what's going on with me?

Lucy's eyes widen. “You
what
? And you didn't wake me up and tell me?” She looks hurt.

“No,” I say. “Because it didn't go all that well. In fact, I'm not even sure why I let him kiss me in the first place. And when he did . . .” I'm trying to think of the best way to describe it without letting her know I'm a freak. “I got a shock.”

“Like static electricity?”

I shake my head. “No, Lucy, you know how I told you strange things keep happening to me?”

“The reflection, the creepy old woman . . .” she says, gesturing for me to elaborate.

“Well, this was another strange thing. I actually felt repelled by Abe. It was painful to kiss him.”

“Did he hurt you?” She sounds like she might track him down and beat him.

“No. It was me. My body sort of freaked out—cold and shaking—and I ran to my room and locked the door. It was all fairly dramatic and traumatizing.”

“Wow,” she says, leaning against the counter, processing.

“And then yesterday,” I continue. “I talked with that customer I told you about—the one I said I'd probably never see again? Anyway, I bumped into him, and then Abe saw us. He went a little caveman on me. I'm not sure where we stand anymore.”

My sister looks scandalized. “You've certainly broken out of your shell.”

“Things have definitely gotten complicated.”

“Sounds like it. Is there anything I can do?”

I shrug. “Rewind time? I wish I never agreed to go out with Abe. How am I supposed to work with him when I feel so horrible about everything?”

“Elise,” Lucy says, before moving toward the fridge. “Abe Weston is a big boy. I'm sure he can handle himself, even if he's not used to rejection.”

“I hope so.”

Lucy grabs out the entire stack of cold cuts—ham, turkey, salami—and tosses them onto the counter before getting a Coke.

“Hungry?” I ask sarcastically.

“Ravenous. And I want lunch for breakfast.” She pops the top on her drink and starts downing it immediately. Under the edge of her shirtsleeve, I notice a glint of gold.

“Is that a new bracelet?”

She chokes on her sip and then tugs down on her shirt. “Sometimes-boyfriend is getting more serious.” She smiles. “Next time I'm asking for diamonds.”

“Hope he's worth it,” I say, undoing the tie on the bread, deciding that lunch for breakfast actually sounds pretty perfect.

“He's not,” she says automatically, and then brings over the meat, slapping it down next to me. “Okay, so Abe is out. What about this other guy? I'm intensely curious about who can make Abe Weston go primal with jealousy.”

We start building our sandwiches, Lucy grabbing a steak knife to dig around in the jar of mayonnaise.

“He rides a motorcycle.”

“And you're blushing already.” She bumps her shoulder into mine. “He must be sexy.”

“He's very cute.”

“Elise,” Lucy says. “Cute guys don't ride on motorcycles. Sexy guys do. Or old guys. I'm guessing he's sexy, though, right?”

“So sexy.”

“Then I can't wait to meet him.”

“You sort of have,” I tell her, biting into my sandwich. “He's the one you almost ran over with your car the other day.”

 

The morning slips away as I get ready to meet Harlin, butterflies in my stomach. It's too gloomy outside for a sundress, and I'm afraid a skirt will fly up if he takes me on his Harley. So I opt for soft jeans and a snug T-shirt. I twist my hair into a knot and dab on some of my sister's perfume.

Lucy's asleep when I pop my head in to ask if her car is fit to drive, so I snag her keys to try for myself. The Honda purrs to life as if it hadn't had any trouble the night before, and I start toward Santo's. I want to pick up my check before going out with Harlin.

The rain starts almost immediately, pelting the windshield with angry splashes. Lucy's wipers can barely keep up.

When I pull into Santo's, there are only a few cars in the parking lot. But no motorcycle. My heart dips until I see Harlin standing under the awning near the front door. I drive up to him, stopping as I roll down the passenger window.

“Why in the world are you waiting out here?” I call, my voice barely carrying over the rain.

His mouth stretches into a smile when he ducks down to see it's me. “I'm not. I just got here. I didn't want to ride my bike in the rain, so I hitchhiked. Interesting town you have here.”

“I bet it was an adventure.”

He points over his shoulder. “Should we grab some lunch first?”

“At Santo's?” I cringe at the thought. Other than the fact that I'm entirely sick of Mexican food, Abe might be in there. And he might accidentally-on-purpose drop a plate of enchiladas into Harlin's lap if we're together.

“Bad idea?” Harlin asks.

“Think so.” We're quiet for a second, and then I shrug. “We can go back to my house. I can make sandwiches.”

Harlin seems to think about it, as if he's not sure it's a good idea. But then he glances at the sky—at the rain—and climbs inside the car.